


Vignette at Gallitep

by Kriyet



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 04:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3922588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kriyet/pseuds/Kriyet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fleeting moment in the life of Aamin Marritza during his stint in Gallitep. (Minor edits.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vignette at Gallitep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vyc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vyc/gifts).



Aamin pulled open the last box from the camp’s hidden store room just as he was beginning to sweat. Perspiring from the warmth of his own working body felt calming in it’s own way, being a sensation he rarely experienced since arriving on Bajor. The more frequent cold sweats were another matter, but, in his now practiced fashion, he brushed the thoughts that triggered them aside to instead appreciate the sight of paper in front of him. The feel of paper in his hands was always reassuring. Databases and scans had their own efficiencies, and he was adept at them, but paper was grounding, present, real. He scooped up a stack, eager for the weight of them, the rustle of them rubbing together. In his line of work, the little pleasures mattered most. 

Such a shame that after they were to be scanned and translated, they would be burnt. Everything useless in Gallitep was disposed of. Every thing . . . every body.

Aamin forced himself to focus on the task before him. These documents were out of order, and the Bajoran signatures on them nearly illegible. Strange, as Bajorans, in his experience, usually had smooth handwriting. No matter. He pulled the first sheet up and was met with the sound of ripping paper. A small gasp escaped him. Had it been so long he’d forgotten how delicate paper was? He noticed then the ruddy ink of the second page’s signature had stuck to the first. It must not have been allowed to dry before it was packed away. If all of these were as such, this project would quickly turn into a nightmare. Yet, Aamin realized, he hadn’t pulled all the papers out of the box. Surely he would have heard the ones below his current stack tear as well. He set the stack in his arms on the floor and looked back into the box. The signature on the next page was smudged, but the page was not torn. Aamin reached in and gently lifted it by the corner. It clung to the page below for only an instant before sliding free. 

Something wasn’t as it should be. The ink used on this page wasn't quite the same color. Had the inks been changed mid queue? Had another liquid been added to prolong the supply? It was a brighter red than that of the top of the stack, and glossier. Curious, Aamin skimmed the contours of the signature with his fingertips. The ink gave, and smeared. 

Aamin looked at his hands, now tainted with the ink that had not been given time to dry, the red liquid that marked a name. A Bajoran. A body. Any warmth he’d earned fighting his way to this box retreated from his body instantaneously. He dropped the page, willing his mind to obey his control, only to find his other hand also stained from the ink of another signature that had tracked to the back side. As his hands began to shake, he thought again of the signatures and why they were illegible. His spine gave way as smokey spots clouded his vision, and he hoped that this time he would wake up before someone found him.


End file.
